


The Consequence of Truth

by word_docs_and_willowboughs



Series: Four Thousand Winter Thought She Not Too Long [4]
Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Coming to an end in like 2 weeks, Established Relationship, F/F, Kissing, Lymond is a lady, Power Imbalance, Pre-Book 1: The Game of Kings, Rule 63, bad relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22030180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/word_docs_and_willowboughs/pseuds/word_docs_and_willowboughs
Summary: (A prompt from Angstober 2019: Betrayal/Secrets)After a year of a progressively more uncomfortable stay with the Lennoxes, and an equally precarious relationship, Frances Crawford may have reached her breaking point, and is close to risking her safety and anonymity to be certain of wether she really is alone in the outside world. It is not a risk Margaret intends to let her take.
Relationships: Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny/Margaret Douglas
Series: Four Thousand Winter Thought She Not Too Long [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585696





	The Consequence of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Rule 63 AU in which Lymond and some others are women  
> Francis = Frances

She could not go on. Frances realized it while locked in embrace with Margaret, Countess of Lennox, her eyes closed and kissing her. It was the kiss that made her sure of it — another one without any feeling to it, or one that she did not feel, and Margaret did. That kiss was not the first of its kind; there had been many. Far too many. It was long since Frances had discovered that she was perfectly capable of pleasing Margaret, of making her feel happy, when she herself felt totally uncoupled from it all, and had since found an ambivalent discomfort growing in her whenever she did, because Margaret either did not notice, or did not care. A few months ago it had become an open fact, though one Frances had known nearly all along, that there was an element of transaction to their trysts; it was how she paid her due, or earned her keep in staying there. 

The difference was that at first, Margaret insisted that she cared for Frances, her well-being, her feelings — that she loved her — and Frances had believed it because she wanted to so desperately. But after two years abroad locking emotion away somewhere safe, making a shield of a guise that concealed all vulnerability, the realization that here too she was expected to hide anything like pain was impossibly harsh. It made Margaret unhappy when she acted unhappy, and even at the first, Margaret being unhappy carried an undertone of danger to it. Only a word from her could have Frances thrown out, or arrested, left to the discretion of Margaret’s husband. The strain of months had taught her two things: that she could not be both afraid and in love, and that Margaret did not need Frances to love her to be satisfied. So she was here, secluded, with Margaret in her arms, and she had started it all herself, even knowing nothing good would come of it.

It was exhausting, profoundly so, for a reason Frances could not name save for the fact that she was living as two people at once: the one with memories of France, who had fought and lied and fallen for Scotland, and the one for whom none of that mattered. The second was the one who belonged and was beholden to Margaret, and whose manner and expressions and words could not help but weigh on the other girl beneath. Usually that was what kept her silent, pinned down anything like angry words and allowed her to smile instead of grimacing. Just now, though, quite suddenly Frances found that in that moment the distance she felt was letting her escape it. She spoke, breaking this kiss half without meaning to, and the ill-advised words spilled from her like water which had broken a dam. 

“You told me before,” she said, her voice queerly detached from anything she thought of it as sounding like, “That you were lied to, after Solway. When you said that I would be ransomed, that my family would come for me…”  
“I did not know they would take their revenge on you instead,” Margaret said firmly, without hesitating at the sudden change of pace. “You know that, Frances, now — ”  
“Do they know, then?” she asked, almost surprised at herself. “My parents, my brother… do they think me dead?” Margaret’s mouth dropped open.   
“I’ve no idea,” she said, “But Frances, the Scots knew that you spied for us; you’d be in terrible danger if you left.”   
“I would,” Frances answered. “I know that.”   
“You wouldn’t… everyone would know that you betrayed them, the Scots and the English alike; you hurt all of them.” She wasn’t affronted, or angry, but almost regretful, taking Frances’s face in her hands and looking up wide-eyed in worry. “I don’t blame you for it; they will. I know you were just a girl, but you’ve left yourself little way back. Don’t go looking for paths that aren’t there.”   
“No,” said Frances, and added bluntly, “I am not so reckless.” Margaret was right. It was damned near impossible to go back. But as she relented, ran her hands down Margaret’s back and brought her gently into another kiss, she thought to herself that it was still more impossible to stay.


End file.
